


Our Song

by Unitedcows184



Series: Sherlock Holmes and The Adventure of the Furtive Festivity Donor Fics [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas fic, Gift Swap, Holiday, Jealousy, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Requited Love, Secrets, Sherlock Plays the Violin, True Love, spit swap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-07 19:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12847500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unitedcows184/pseuds/Unitedcows184
Summary: Sherlock is cranky, John is cheerful, and Mrs. Hudson is nosy.It's Christmas at 221B and Sherlock can tell John is hiding something. Is he finally going to settle down with one of those insipid women he dates? Or is he going to make a move on the man he's been in love with for years? I DoN't KnOw!!!!This fic was gifted to a donor of my short film, Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Furtive Festivity. Those who contributed $10 or more commissioned a Sherlock fic with the prompt of their choosing. Thank you to anonymous for the prompt.Check out our indiegogo page at the link below!https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/sherlock-the-adventure-of-the-furtive-festivity#/





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1 features a BAH HUMBUG Sherlock. Please imagine him wearing the reindeer ears the whole of the chapter.

Dusty garland hoisted up from the basement flat. The smell of vanilla and cinnamon just barely overpowering Mrs. Hudson’s usual waft of marijuana smoke. A small, but distinct patch of red on the tip of the nose of one John Watson from the London chill. As inevitable as it is hateful, the Christmas season is upon us.

It’s true I dislike Christmas for what one might consider the predictable reasons. As a man who spends a great deal of time investigating breakings and enterings, I take offence to the notion that a Mycroft-sized man squeezing himself through narrow passageways is not only considered plausible, but _charming._

It does bring to mind a more memorable missing persons case in which a jilted mistress was found dead in her lover’s chimney after an excessive breast augmentation left her stuck in the flue. I believe John’s blog post on the subject was titled _The Boob Tube_.

Mostly, I find discomfort during the holidays because people act in unpredictable ways. This time of year either sends people into debilitating bouts of depression or hyperactive spells of retail mania; the usual motives I have come to suspect from people have no place in the winter time. There is no study to be had from a suicide spurred from loneliness or assault and battery over a coveted toy at the shops.

And as for gift giving, I scarcely see the point in that as well. Now that I am an adult, with considerable means no less, I am more than capable of buying the things I want for myself. I have been told that people exchange gifts to prove to one another that they have been paying attention to their interests and needs, but that train of thought hasn’t well worked out for me. Why, just last year I was _heavily_ scolded when I gifted John a report on the reach and success of his sexual conquests organized by location of origin of each partner, duration of each encounter, and overall partner satisfaction.

I know that John takes great pride in his sexual prowess, so I didn’t understand why the gift offended him. As for his then girlfriend Lillian, I feel as if she would have been better off using that data to her advantage rather than a reason to break up with John.

It was actually one of our better Christmases.

In any event, I have vowed this year to abstain from any presents. It only gets me into trouble. In years past, John was disappointed that I neglected to get him anything, but when I take the time to handcraft a gift that is both useful and flattering to the recipient, John says things to me like “inappropriate” and “you’ve ruined the party” and “bloody hell, Sherlock how far does this research go back?” I’m a graduate chemist and one of the most celebrated minds in London. I don’t need to be chastised like this.

If only I could wrap my head around the enigma that is my flatmate. Every time I feel like I am finally, properly, showing John Watson the depth of my regard for him, my intentions get misinterpreted. I am unable to read the signals he gives me far too often, signals I used to think were alerting me to a rather desirable outcome.

Sometimes I can’t help but think that there is a reason we keep finding each other after all the times the universe has separated us. Sometimes I look at him and I can’t even imagine how meaningless my accomplishments would be without his attention and praise. Sometimes, I even think I might deserve him.

However, I am through putting John through hell. I am not equipped to fill all the roles that John deems necessary in his life. I can cure his limp, give him a flatshare, but there are some things I just can’t do for him.

Speaking of which, that’s John now. Home from a date, rather early, disappointingly so, going by the dirge like pace he takes up the stairs. He catches me staring as he emerges from the door and gives me a weary smile.

“Alright? Did you have those leftovers I set aside for you?” he questions as he removes his tired date-night shoes.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I reply as I walk to the fireplace, hiding my face and fiddling with the fairy lights I put up this evening. (I did have the leftovers and they were divine.)

He laughs good naturedly and shakes his head. His hand ghosts over my shoulders as he makes his way to the stairs.

“I’m glad you liked them. Those lights look nice,” John whispers on his way up the stairs to his room.

Damn. His observational skills are getting too good.

Once I know for sure John is tucked away in bed, I pull out my violin, as I have for the past few months. I have been fiddling for a while with a composition that, at its current stage, has about an 85% rate of getting weary, PTSD ridden army doctors to sleep.

On one hand, I am obviously pleased that whatever nameless woman John wasted the evening with does not have a future at Baker Street. But someday, John will find someone who will make him skip up the stairs, who will lay with him, who will help him to sleep. I both look forward to his fulfillment and dread his departure once that day comes. Until then, I play for him.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds yet another lady to occupy his time. How dare he! Sherlock is reluctantly lassoed into the spirit of the season. Mrs. Hudson meddles.

I know I said earlier that I would be willing to fulfill any role in Dr. John Watson’s life that he would permit me, but shouldn’t there be some reciprocity? Let me explain.

In the weeks following that December night John came home early from his date dusted with snow, cheeks ruby and cold from the wind, his finer, silver strands of hair glowing in the low fairy lights—

I mean. Ever since he was last cast aside from one of London’s more forgettable women, his mood and behavior have changed drastically. At first I thought it could be because Christmas is a mere five days away, but these are behaviors I have noted year round in some of my clients.

  1. John, aggressive brute and seasoned war veteran, has been spotted around the Baker Street flats honest to goodness whistling pop tunes. Often these bouts of musical expression are accompanied by a regrettably endearing bum wiggle as he cooks me breakfast (which I won’t eat on principle).
  2. John has a standing appointment Mondays and Thursdays out of the house at an undisclosed location, 12:30-2:30. He hasn’t said outright where he is going or with whom he is meeting, but I have made my disinterest _very_ clear, despite what Mrs. Hudson says. And finally,
  3. John Watson returns from these meetings warm and satisfied looking. Lately, I have noticed that he comes back with cracked, chapped lips and a sore jaw that he nurses with a dramatic tilt of the head and an exaggerated rubdown from swollen, red fingertips.



It doesn’t take a consulting detective to see what is going on.

Now. I could care less that John has somehow further found a way to scrape the barrel of London’s available women. I don’t mind how smug and self-assured he comes back from his rendezvous, but that fact is that it is starting to affect the work. I tell John this as he attempts to leave the house on the Thursday before Christmas.

“Not today, John. We’re needed at Scotland Yard. It seems the most elite law enforcement your city has to offer has taken to replacing their coffee with spiked eggnog. Tis the season!” I grab my scarf and head out the door, not wanting to look back to see if he will follow. Once upon a time it was a sure thing.

“I’m actually busy this afternoon. Maybe I can catch up with you later.”

I turn and look at him, really look. Why can’t I see him like I used to?

(I’m scared of what I will find if I really look.)

“Not Ella. She’d be all booked up this time of year.”

“Not Ella, no,” he smiles at me (why?).

“But why the irritation around the mouth? And the strict schedule…”

He looks up at me from under his eyelashes and I’m grateful for the scarf covering my reddening neck. He chuckles, “been noticing my mouth, have you?”  


I grimace, betrayed by my own curiosity. “The schedule?”

John pushes past me on his way out the door. “That’s just when Katie’s available.”

 _Katie_. It has a name. A young, perky name. Well, Katie, I’ve been saving John Watson long before you finished primary school. I won’t concede so easily.

“Maybe I should come along then, we can see Lestrade afterward,” I offer, innocently enough.

John shakes his head, rubs the back of his neck. Is he embarrassed? “Sherlock, I really want you to meet Katie. She’s amazing. But not yet, okay? Just trust me.”

“I don’t want to meet another one of your vapid girlfriends, John. I merely thought that your time would be better spent working with me rather than doing something hateful like ice skating.”

“Definitely not ice skating. It’s murder on the knees,” John says, with a playful glimmer in his eye.

I’m positively murdering John with my eyes.

Then, somehow, it gets exponentially worse.

“Sherlock, yoo hoo!” Mrs Hudson comes skipping up with the vivacity of a woman thirty years her junior. “Care to try this on? I think I have it just about done.”

The woman holds up a hateful red and green knitted reindeer sweater. She approaches me with single minded focus. I feel time slow down.

She thrusts it over my head, my curls getting stuck in the too small neck hole.

“Mrs. Hudson, wait.”

“No time to wait, dear. Christmas is just days away and I haven’t yet finished your jumper. My goodness, your torso is long, isn’t it.”

I can feel the static electricity from the wool ruining my artfully tousled hair! Damn the woman.

“I don’t need a jumper! Unhand me, harridan!” I hear John snigger, and the door opening.

The homemade sweater is finally pulled over my eyes just as the door closes. I hopelessly try and smooth down my hair and glare at Mrs. Hudson, who eyes me critically.

“It needs one more thing,” she says as she presses a button at the end of my sleeve.

The jumper lights up and plays on off-key version of O Tannenbaum. Mrs. Hudson claps and squeals.

For once, I am glad for John’s absence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a lightweight when it comes to Mrs. Hudson's mulled wine!! I hope he doesn't say anything embarrassing to Katie, who John brought to their Christmas Eve party!!!! (he does)

In the following days leading up to Christmas, 221B actually became much calmer. I continued to wear the Christmas jumper that Mrs. Hudson fashioned, just so she could be sure it fit properly, of course. (I absolutely did NOT keep wearing it because Mrs. Hudson said the color help accentuate my cheekbones.) Mummy sent over enough Christmas sweets to keep us in profiteroles well into the new year. And I stopped playing the song on my violin for John at nighttime. 

The fact of the matter is, it was probably inappropriate for me to serenade John to sleep in the first place. He has made it clear that that is not a part of his life I should be involved in, that part being things bedroom adjacent. _Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms_ , he said, all those years ago. Clear as could be. 

It's none of my business why John and his latest conquest Katie seem only to meet during the day. It's true that John typically likes to see women during the night time, possibly for the discretion the darkness brings, more likely because of the implication it brings to accompany a woman up to her rooms at night. It is of no concern to me if John and this woman chose to defile one another in the light of day, like some sort of exhibitionists. Doesn't affect me in the slightest. 

Of course, since my musician's strike began, my flat mate has reverted back to his unpredictable sleeping pattern. The result is an eye rubbing, slow and soft, positively grumpy John that I happen to find maddeningly adorable. And just like that, my resolve crumbles. 

Look at what he is without me! Does he even know why he is so suddenly restless? I give him a home, danger, stimulating companionship. I cured his limp, gave him someone to point the gun at other than himself. (At those threatening to tear us apart, after just one day.) If John and I, as a unit, weren't meant to persist, then why hasn't my life ever been the same since I met him? Why do all of our provisional replacements for each other consistently fall short?

Maybe the holidays really are getting me. There is no reason that this Katie woman should pose any more of a threat to our partnership than any of the women before her. There have been scores of women before, all forgotten. The only difference is that now, I don't think there should be anymore. John and I need each other, and I will no longer concede to having to share him. I can be all that he needs. I'm mostly sure of it. 

Unfortunately, I'm having this realization during our Christmas Eve party, standing in the corner in my fancy jumper, sipping on mulled wine. Well, rather more than sipping. 

And there stands John and Katie in the corner, whispering rather seriously to each other. No doubt agonizing over which charming bed and breakfast to holiday for New Years. "A cozy place to ourselves, John. It's about intimacy, John. Why does your flat mate have a catalogue of your eye color in different levels of sunlight, John?" It's positively hateful.   

Mrs. Hudson and Molly guard the punch bowl, giggling at me. I stumble rather than walk towards them on my way to get myself another glass of the delicious grog. It really is quite good. 

"Hi, Sherlock. Happy Christmas! Love the jumper." 

I push past Molly rather gracelessly and slosh more wine into my cup. I turn around with my girls and look across the room at Katie, holding and examining John's hands. Without the permission of my brain, I scoff and roll my eyes. 

Molly casts a glance sidelong at Mrs. Hudson and nudges me in the side. "Not a fan of John's new girlfriend then, Sherlock? Katie, is it?" 

I throw my glass to my mouth, possibly dribbling a bit. I wipe my face with my sleeve and push myself off where I lean on the table. I'm already on way towards them when I say, "Not his girlfriend, Molly. Not if I can help it."

I'm feeling bold, so I ignore Katie's look of surprise as I sidle up to my cuddly, cozy, killer-savior and sling an arm around his waist. I see myself extend a finger towards his face as I move and gently boop him on the nose. "I don't usually like entertaining, darling, but I would say the party's going well, wouldn't you? Not that I can't wait for them to leave so I can get you alone," I all but slur into his ear. 

John slightly, but not entirely, disentangles himself from me. He looks down at the ground, eyes wide, and laughs a bit. He clears his throat and looks up at that woman, who is still standing there for some reason. "Katie, this is my flat mate, Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Katie. Be nice, wouldn't you." 

As if I wouldn't be nice. I look Katie up and down with all the scrutiny of a casting director at a modeling agency. Unlike most of John's girlfriends when I act up, she looks distinctly amused. Smug, perhaps?

"Katie, of course. Perhaps you would be interested in the gift I gave John last year. It might be helpful for you to see how the previous women John has cast aside fared in a physical relationship with him." Katie looks over at John in disbelief. Time to go in for the kill. I lean in and whisper loudly in a way only tipsy revelers during the holidays can, "Truth be told, many of the women couldn't handle John's considerable girth, but that hasn't been a problem for us, has it, John?"

It's as if, in that moment, all the Londoners at their various Christmas parties stopped what they were doing to listen to me as I made of fool of myself. It's of no concern to me, I would have said the same thing a million times just to see that delightful blush on John’s cheeks. I don't, however, appreciate Molly and Mrs. Hudson's interest in the matter. I’ll have to delete those photos later…

John pulls me aside, still allowing me to hold his compact torso. It's as if we are bound together by the static electricity generated from our inexpensive jumpers. This thought in particular alerts me to just how drunk I might be. Would John dislike my momentary foray away from science into romanticism? Oh, he looks as if he’s something to say to me. He speaks harshly, but without anger. "Christ, Sherlock. What has gotten into you?" 

In for a penny in for a pound, my inebriated brain supplies. I nose and the sensitive spot behind John's ear and let his cropped hair tickle my face. He smells of cinnamon and gun powder. I all but rumble into his ear, "I've just got the spirit of the season in me, John. Feeling... warm. So comfortable." I feel him shiver, but he pulls away nonetheless. 

He finally distances himself from me completely. I feel irrationally empty. He shakes his head and exhales, steeling himself, before he comes back up to me. He tentatively puts his hands on my shoulders, whispering and looking at me as if his words hold great importance. "Sherlock, if this is what I think it is, and I hope to God I'm right..."

I pull up closer. "And what would that be, John?" He pushes me away, but most gently. 

"You'll be the death of me. I just need-- just give me a moment, yeah? I'll... we'll talk about this after." And then he studies me from the side of his eyes before he laughs and walks back-- to KATIE! 

Maybe the wine has me feeling more seductive than I actually appear. 

"After what?" I yell, but he and Katie have already disappeared together to the kitchen. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story comes to an end! Merry Christmas to all!

It seems as if hours have passed as I sober up on the couch between a tittering Molly and Mrs. Hudson, who are carrying on comparing the calf muscles of different cricket players. John and Katie have since moved into MY bedroom (!!) and I can faintly hear some kind of animalistic squawking.

"Something about his bum in those shorts, well I tell you it's made a sports fan out of me!"

"Impeccable taste, Molly. You've yet again set your amorous sights on a gay man. While Pickering may have what you call 'an arse you could bounce a golf ball off,' I'm sure he isn't looking for a female pathologist covered in cat hair to test the theory."

Molly, most normally impressed by my scathing remarks about her sex life, just turns to Mrs. Hudson and laughs as if I've just done something hilarious!

"And just how do you know so much about cricket players' bums, Sherlock?"

Mrs. Hudson's eyes twinkle as she awaits my response. I have been caught, no doubt still slowed by my alcohol consumption. I avert my gaze and speak in a low voice.

"John makes me watch it."

The girls burst out in laughter again. The noises from the bedroom grow louder. I throw my head back on the couch and groan. Is anyone in all of London having a worse Christmas than me?

"Is that what's got you being so nasty? John ignoring you for Katie?"

"They have been in there a while," Molly agrees.

I feel tears prickle the back of my eyes. I can't hide anything from these two women. Their faces drop when a betraying tear falls from my face. Mrs. Hudson pulls me into a hug and Molly hurries to retrieve me some more wine. I all but blubber into the cup.

"Oh, Sherlock. You're getting all worked up over nothing."

But she's wrong! John is not nothing, he is everything, and my everything is cruelly using my bedroom as some sort of love shack for his latest conquests.

"Seriously, why have they been in there so long?"

"You know what they say: practice makes perfect!"

The two women erupt into another bout of giggles when my bedroom door cracks open. As I am expecting to see a delightfully, but painfully, disheveled John, I am floored by what I actually see-- and hear.

It's not perfect. His instrument is all out of tune and he hasn't quite figured out circular breathing, but it couldn't matter less. At this moment, John is approaching me with his clarinet, playing back to me the song I've been writing for him since the day we met.

Katie stands in the corner of the room, smugness intact, and encourages John to come further into the room. My eyes are fixed on him and surely my mouth is agape, so I don't notice at first when Mrs. Hudson puts my violin on my lap.

I stumble up from my chair, still looking at the man who has never failed to surprise me. I join into the melody, but falter when I see the look in John's eyes. Oh, joy! He loves me. Of this I am certain.

He lowers his clarinet in time with me, as I haphazardly deposit my violin in its case. I have so much I want to say to him, as clearly he did to me. But we are not men of words. We are men of action: split-second shooting a cabbie action, Semtex in the pool action. We are men of music.

I find myself where I belong, in his arms on Christmas Eve, in our Baker Street haven, where the world comes to our door and adventure calls. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and decide that loving John Watson has been the most exciting and terrifying adventure I've ever taken part in.

"You see, Mr. Holmes? I'm just John's music teacher. He wanted to keep it a surprise!"

I extricate myself from the first of many embraces. Someone is trying to talk to me. Who? Oh, Katie. Irrelevant. Back to recording John's pulse against the warmth of his neck.

"Go away," I grumble. John shakes with laughter beneath me. I can feel his delight run through me. Heavenly.

"Sherlock, that's no way to treat a guest!"

"You too, Mrs. Hudson. And Molly. Get out. Merry Christmas!"

John and I stand intertwined for quite awhile, and eventually I hear the door open and shut. All that's left is the sound of John and I breathing, slow and deep. Life affirming.

He pulls back from me and looks up, smile warm and satisfied.

"A bit not good, you know, kicking our friends out on Christmas."

I smile back at him. He's not angry.

"Not good, then?"

"Probably not. But I can't be arsed to care."

He pulls my head down to his level and shows me just how little he cares about propriety. I could get used to this sort of closeness with John. And it seems as if I truly ought to prepare myself for further such displays. After all, he did learn our song for Christmas.

Speaking of which...

"Mm, John, this is lovely and all, but I take serious issue with your playing. I see what you were going for there, but you made excessive technical errors that rendered the song I compose for you almost unrecognizable."

I pick up my violin and look up at him, such utter, undisguised fondness on his face.

Yes, now that it's up to me, I know John Watson will never have trouble sleeping again.


End file.
